


Weekend Habit

by strange_Selkie



Series: Beacon Hills Party City's Birthday Fest of the Damned [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fire and Rescue AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_Selkie/pseuds/strange_Selkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, Derek, their UST, and some missing...snacks, for my wife's birthday week of fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend Habit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darthrami (notmissmarple)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmissmarple/gifts).



"Stiles, have you seen my—" Derek pulls his head and torso from the pantry's depths. His, his um, his _favorite post-gym snacks_ are missing. Stolen. Nowhere to be found. He suspects Isaac first, but he’s still doing that Changers’ Exchange thing in Romania, and then Erica, before remembering she’s on her post-moon vegan cleanse. Boyd doesn’t do junk food. And…he’s out of people with keys to the firehouse. Stiles is still around, Saturday's crap movie fest segueing into pancake inertia and then Sunday afternoon unwillingness to accept Monday; but he still lives on food from his dad’s and – unadulterated Pixy Stix, probably. He might dip into Boyd’s Diet Cokes but never goes into the pantry, double never for Derek’s snack shelf.

Stiles is sitting on the worktop by the fridge. He doesn’t smell like artificial bacon. Or cheeze and bacon. Or anything like _goddammit bacon._

He smells like Stiles, like caffeine, light recent sweat, and stick deodorant with an angry bear and pine trees on the front. Derek can’t see his own face, but the sunlit kitchen no longer has a reddish cast; he can feel the tension in his neck slack off by half.

“Your wolfie tr—the things you stress eat?” Stiles asks. “As a matter of fact, it looked like you were all out.”

That’s horseshit. Derek’s never _all out_ of…those. And he doesn’t eat when he’s stressed.

“Bought you these,” says Stiles, and there’s a cellophane _shake, shake, shaking_ that really ought to insult Derek so much more than it does. A quick rustle and crackle and Stiles is holding out a snack, like Derek’s going to sit down on the goddamn linoleum and wait to get it.

He snatches it instead and it’s harder than it looks, because Stiles has a boy’s fawn-gawky limbs and slender neck, still, but his hands are… they’re big, broad-thumbed and sinewy and they hold fast, and they just _are._

"These smell like...lavender?" Derek runs the flat, dessicated oblong under his nose. "Lavender and _chamomile_. And they --" His teeth click against the flesh-colored corner, not close to severing it, as he tries to take a first bite. "They taste like ass."

“Come on, dude, you hardly licked it!”

“I was looking,” Derek tries to glower, “for something else.” But he shaved this morning, and without stubble to give his face weight and shadow, glowering just means his dimples show up somewhat less. Stiles grins back, with the artful artlessness of kids in cereal commercials.

“Just give 'em a try. I promise they're good for you in ways the other, ah, snacks are most definitely not. Also, these haven't been recalled by the FDA this year. Twice." Stiles hands over the bag, printed in friendly shades of meadow green, and then gazes down at his Chucks. "Just tryin' to look out for your health, man. Tryin'a return the favor."

And then Stiles does the eyebrows, without actually looking back up at Derek; and Derek takes an actual bite of the -- thing in his hand and he chews, because fuck, they're a low, dirty move, the eyebrows, the eye thing, Stiles' whole asinine adorable rubber _face_ , really. And then -- there is definitely some herbal bullshit going on here, and a taste of _lean_ and _organic_ and _ugh --_ Derek swallows.

"This is false advertising," he says, as Stiles watches expectantly. "No way there is buffalo in these."

"Lotta health benefits from grass-fed bison," Stiles answers, angelic avoidance down to the core. "But you are correct, these happen to be chicken. They're low fat, high protein, and you'll find you can pronounce every ingredient on the list."

"Someone scribbled out the ingredients with a Sharpie."

"A boysenberry Sharpie, because whoever loves you is deeply in touch with his masculinity and also knows how to pick a complementary col--"

“What?” Derek barks. He hates it, but he does. He is wolf-close in Stiles’ space, close enough to see the tiny _tick, thump_ in the artery along his neck, close enough to get a good grip in Stiles’ plaid shirt and make the seams creak.

Stiles adjusts, minutely, in Derek’s hold, but he doesn’t flinch. “Um. You know I love a Sharpie.”

Derek’s head can’t move more quickly, more sharply for _no._ “You said.” He’s still barking, and he has to start again. He doesn’t want these words to sound that way. “You love _me_.”

“Well, I. You know that, right? I thought. With your special wolfly senses. I thought you could smell it on me, or something.”

“That’s—I don’t—‘s rude to do that to people,” mutters Derek, and breaks away, because he is shitty at lying.

Stiles snares him, one foot snagged behind Derek’s knee. “Okay, then, I do. I have for a long time, and now I’m pretty sure you reciprocate, and you are—you are a giant alpha dipshit for not doing anything about it.”

“Jailbait!” Derek protests, and he feels eloquent for managing that. Stiles’ thumbs are sliding upward from Derek’s elbows, and his hands don’t quite stop exploring Derek’s biceps even as Stiles squawks.

“I am twenty-two!”

“Yeah, and—and I’m gonna live a long time, and I. Stiles. I can’t.”

“Der.”

Derek hates having his name shortened, like he’s an idiot, like he’s a _pet,_ but Stiles says it as in _dare, I dare you to do this with me and I probably trust you, too._

“No, listen, Stiles, you don’t—“

“You run a ladder company. In the town with the highest concentration of suspicious fires, malevolent trees, and bloodthirsty humanoid lizards north of Sunnydale. Full moon, you’re all furry, you have some dentition problems, some crazy fucker’s trying to kill you with magic swords. Derek, I am not in this for the shiny red truck.”

“Everyone I love—“

Stiles grabs his chin _hard,_ but Stiles’ eyes are wide, his expression gentle where Derek’s twists with old pain. “You are going to want to pay attention here, pal. I am never asking you this again.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Why are we still _talking_?”


End file.
